


It's the rain that fills the rivers (not the dew)

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [2]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, here we go again, this time with something resembling plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: They’re both trying to ignore each other, Tommy realizes, itching for a cigarette. Jesus Christ. Since they are supposed to have an actual conversation at some point, somebody is going to have to say something. Might as well be him.In which some plans are made, some revelations are had and some people try (and fail) to ignore each other.(This is a direct sequel to "The Israelites had the right idea", so maybe go read that first. Or don't. It's not that complicated.)





	1. Chapter 1

On Wednesday morning, there is a telephone call from London.

Tommy misses it, because he is supposed to pick up John – except when he gets to the house, John’s not ready, because he’s too busy having a massive row with Esme. They’re fighting about… something. There is a lot of screaming, in any case. The children seem unbothered, thankfully, eating their breakfast in the kitchen, the older ones shooting Tommy curious glances. John junior wordlessly offers him a slice of bread, which Tommy declines with a small smile. Upstairs, something that sounds very breakable shatters into a lot of pieces.

“For fuck’s sake!” John shouts from somewhere. Tommy can just picture him, red-faced and perplexed. He never sees these things coming.

“We’re not s’pposed to say that,” Katie says, in a delighted voice, like she’s letting him in on a secret. “That’s a bad word.”

“It is a bad word,” Tommy agrees. He sneaks a look at his watch, resisting the urge to rub his forehead. Five more minutes, he decides. If John hasn’t at least acknowledged his presence by then, he’s leaving without him.

When they finally get to the office, it’s almost nine in the morning and John’s in an awful mood. Apparently, he’s been letting some of the older children take shots at empty glass bottles with his revolver, which, Tommy gathers, Esme wasn’t too happy about.

“Girls, too?”, Tommy asks.

“Well, ‘course the girls, too,” John says indignantly. “They’re fucking Shelbys as well!”

Tommy can’t really argue with that.

A few minutes later, he’s standing next to his desk, taking his cap off, and listens to Lizzie telling him that London’s been on the phone. It’s been three weeks since Alfie Solomons and his men ended up in Birmingham. Three weeks since the… incident. Tommy has been very deliberately not thinking about it. Any of it. It was a mistake, a dangerous one at that, and it’s never going to happen again; never mind the lizard part of his brain that’s somehow gotten stuck on those events, doesn’t care about any repercussions and very much _wants_ it to happen again.

“Who did you talk to?”, he asks.

“Same one as always,” Lizzie says, which means Ollie made the call. “It’s about the warehouse, he said. They want to know if we’ve decided what’s to be done about it.”

Tommy nods. Sounds about right. The warehouse has been a foreseeable issue for some time, now. The City of London is building a street that’s supposed to go right through the property, which means they will need to tear the building down, which means Shelby Company Ltd. is going to have to sell it. They could refuse, in theory, but that would only lead to a compulsory purchase and bad blood all around.

Since the warehouse is in the northwest of London and also very conveniently located in a number of different ways, Alfie has been using it as well, for storage and… other things. He pays rent, which he complains about being too high, comparing it to highway robbery on every possible occasion. Tommy’s never read too much into it, because the truth of the matter is, with Alfie, you only really have to start worrying once the complaining stops.

It’s also not news that Tommy’s been planning to sell. It can’t be. They haven’t officially talked about it yet, but Alfie probably knows more about the goings-on in London than Tommy ever will and he’s not an idiot. Selling the property is the best option, no matter how you look at it.

Tommy reaches for his cigarettes, thinking it through. They could try and hash it out over the telephone, which wouldn’t be ideal, but certainly possible. The situation _would_ warrant him going down there to discuss it in person – nobody would think twice about that. It also would be the courteous thing to do. Different circumstances, he thinks, and he would drive down there tomorrow without any hesitation. Well. Probably _some_ hesitation, but that’s just because it’s London, and also because Alfie can’t be completely trusted on principle alone.

But circumstances being what they are… who the fuck even knows what Alfie is thinking. Maybe this is simply about business, or maybe it’s a very reasonable excuse for… something else. Might very well be a trap. On the other hand, how’s it going to look if Tommy just stays here? He can’t avoid London forever – at some point, it’s going to become noticeable and then he is going to start looking weak. He should just get it over with right away.

He tells Lizzie to call them back – because it’s not unusual and because it feels safer, somehow – and set something up, he’s going to be in town tomorrow. Then he vehemently suppresses the memory loop that’s starting up in his head, of the hotel room and the bruise on Alfie’s thigh and the way he-

He’s going to have to tell Polly he’s leaving, he thinks hastily, and also get all the financial details concerning the warehouse straight before he goes. Some strange form of fight or flight-instinct is kicking in, he can feel it, even though he’s alone in his office and nothing is actually happening.

So he does the logical thing – goes and ropes John into it.

 

* * *

 

When they arrive in Camden Town the next day around noon, Tommy doing his level best to pretend that his heart isn’t trying to beat right out of his chest, they’re told to wait. Apparently, Mr. Solomons had to leave because of some urgent business matter, but is expected back any minute now.

“Are they fuckin’ serious,” John says, not trying to keep his voice down at all. He hasn’t made up with Esme yet, which is part of the reason why he agreed to come to London with Tommy in the first place. “They’re not even going to let us inside?”

The answer to that question is no, they absolutely won’t, Tommy knows that form experience – at least not into any part close to the actual office. They could go inside and wait around between the barrels, probably sample some of the rum if they wanted; but the mood John is in, Tommy doesn’t want him to start drinking just yet. The fact that the sweet, sticky smell makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, because for some godforsaken reason it reminds him of Alfie and the way he- anyway, it has nothing to do with that at all.

Better to stay outside. He lights up a cigarette for himself, offers one to John.

“Bastards,” John says, but quietly under his breath this time, and takes the cigarette. He wanders off after that, taking in the street, while Tommy stays put, leaning back against the car. Two men carrying a heavy wooden crate shuffle past him, one of them politely greeting him by name. Down the street, John has started a conversation with a Jewish guy waiting next to a seemingly empty van. Tommy shoves his hands into his pockets, tips his head back against the car, closes his eyes for a second. Everything is normal, he tells himself. It’s going to be fucking fine.

After a minute, he can hear the sounds of a car approaching to his right. It’s obvious who it is, just from the way everybody in the vicinity scrambles to make space immediately. Tommy pushes himself away from the car, hands still in his pockets and forces himself to relax. Throws a look over his shoulder, to make sure John is on his way back.

The arriving car stops in the middle of the street, right in front of the entrance. Alfie’s in the passenger seat, not waiting for anyone to open the door for him, even though two people are clearly on their way to do just that. He’s climbing out of the car while telling the person in the back seat to “keep an eye on it, yeah? And fuck whatever his bloody _aunt_ has to say about it-”, flourishing his cane like he’s conducting an orchestra.

The person he is talking to is Ollie, Tommy realizes, right as John arrives by his side. Now that they’re actually facing each other, he feels simultaneously calmer and more nervous than he expected. Calmer because… well. It’s still just Alfie, isn’t it? He obviously doesn’t need the cane today, because he’s loosely holding it around the midpoint, not touching it to the ground at all. The black eye is gone. He’s wearing his usual attire, rolled up newspaper stuffed into his coat pocket.

“Tommy,” he says, turning towards him with a nod, holding out his hand. There’s dried ink on the base of his thumb.

“Morning, Alfie,” Tommy says, even though it’s already close to twelve o’clock. They shake hands, Tommy keeping his mind carefully blank. As always, Alfie’s hand is calloused and very warm. Under the brim of his hat, he’s looking at Tommy cautiously, or maybe Tommy is just imagining that.

“John!” Alfie says after a moment that feels a lot longer, exuberant, turning to John like they’ve been separated for years, not like they’ve met each other once before and didn’t exchange more than a few words. “How are you?”

“Just fine,” John says, unimpressed, but he shakes Alfie’s hand without complaint. Then he nods his head over his shoulder, back to the van down the street, an obvious attempt at making small talk. “Gonna have rain today, your driver says.”

Instead of looking up at the clouded sky, Alfie and Ollie simultaneously crane their necks, trying to discern who he is talking about.

“Fuck’s sake,” Ollie murmurs, once they spot the man in question.

“Not gonna rain today, mate,” Alfie says with the certainty of somebody who controls the weather. “Samuel, yeah, he’s always wrong about that. Fundamentally. It’s a gift, really, just have to always stick to the opposite of what he says.”

“Is that right,” John says, clearly not realizing that Alfie’s being completely serious. He’s trying his best to be civil, Tommy can tell, even though he knows for a fact that John hasn’t forgiven Alfie for what happened with Arthur yet. Nor Billy Kitchen, for that matter. Nevertheless, this is his polite face. What is going to save them, Tommy thinks, is that John always has a much harder time being hostile to somebody who is acting cordial towards him than Arthur.

Alfie introduces John and Ollie; after that Tommy goes to shake Ollie’s hand, for the sake of completeness, and then they’re finally done and can go inside.

Tommy wonders whether Ollie is going to be present for the actual meeting or not; if the answer to that is yes, he’s keeping John. But Ollie is already turning around, asking John if he’s hungry and also, more importantly, would he like a drink, and John – still upset over Esme, even if he has spent the entire drive denying it – says “Fuck, yes” enthusiastically and off they go. All right, Tommy thinks uneasily. Fine. Business as usual, then. It’s not like John even knows what’s going on with the warehouse, apart from the obvious.

Alfie unlocks the door to his office and then just stands there, holding it open. Tommy goes inside without looking at him, unreasonably angry at the gesture. He sits down, trying to ignore Alfie in the corner, who is methodically taking off hat, kippa, coat and then some sort of cardigan he had on underneath. He then starts rolling up his shirtsleeves, still facing away from his desk, focusing on the hat rack instead. Then he shoves up the sleeves of the cotton shirt underneath. _Then_ he takes out the newspaper he had in his coat pocket and starts folding it in a different way.

They’re both trying to ignore each other, Tommy realizes, itching for a cigarette. Jesus Christ. Since they are supposed to have an actual conversation at some point, somebody is going to have to say something. Might as well be him.

“Alfie.”

“Hmmmm?” Alfie says, feigning surprise, looking up like he didn’t expect to see anybody in his office today. “Yes, what?”

“Sit down.”

“Yeah, well, hold your fucking horses,” Alfie mutters, annoyed. “Was just about to do that, wasn’t I.”

“All right, then.”

He ambles over, cane clattering against the cabinet behind the desk, and sinks down into his chair like his spine has liquified, interlacing his fingers in front of his chest.

“So.”

“So,” Tommy says, around the cigarette he just put in his mouth.

“Here we fucking are.”

“Yes.”

They’re looking at each other now, _really_ looking. Tommy swallows, feeling nervous and out of his element, taking a drag from his cigarette to hide it. Alfie follows the movement with his eyes, not moving a muscle otherwise, keeping himself so still it’s almost unsettling. His gaze goes to Tommy’s mouth, once he’s put the cigarette back, and unabashedly stays there. Tommy can feel his face go hot, doesn’t now what to do about it. He almost wants to take the cigarette away, except that would feel like admitting something; what exactly, he doesn’t even know. The silence between them stretches out, heavy with… something.

“Wore a tie and everything,” he hears himself say and wants to fucking die immediately. Why in the name of _fuck_ did he just say that? Maybe Alfie missed it… except of course he bloody didn’t, it’s obvious in a way Tommy can’t even put his finger on. Maybe in the way he’s holding himself. He hasn’t relaxed, exactly – hasn’t even visibly moved – but now it’s a different kind of tension.

 _“Not even wearing a tie,”_ Tommy had said, three weeks ago, just before they’d ended up in bed together. _“Yeah, well, now I don’t feel special anymore, do I,”_ Alfie’d said in response, trying to lighten the mood, probably. He sure as hell hadn’t been serious about it.

“Hmmmm,” is what he says now, rubbing two fingers under his chin, looking him up and down very deliberately. “Did, didn’t you.”

Tommy shrugs, trying his best to look like he doesn’t care how Alfie interprets this information. On the inside, he feels like an idiot. Now he’s the one that brought it up first, however indirectly. He doesn’t even _want_ to repeat anything, not really, not seriously, anyway, except now Alfie is going to think that he does. Christ, Tommy is just handing him ammunition at this point.

“All right,” he says resolutely, “Anyway. About the warehouse.”

“Yes,” Alfie agrees immediately. He’s sitting up straight, putting his elbows on the desk, linking his fingers together again. “About that. Would I be correct in assuming that you got insurance on that, mate?”

“You would,” Tommy says, already feeling better, like they’re on safer ground now. “Why?”

“Would you like to collect some of that, before you have to sell the whole thing?”

“That depends,” Tommy says, all ears now. He was prepared for a lot of tedious details, but this meeting might actually be _about_ something, after all. “But hypothetically, sure. Who wouldn’t.”

“Right, yeah, no, ‘course,” Alfie says, nodding seriously. “Let’s just say, in theory. If something unfortunate were to happen, right? Like if the whole thing were to, well, I don’t know…” He rotates one of his hands in a casual circle. “Go up in flames or something. Earthquake. Lightning strike, maybe.”

“Earthquake,” Tommy says, coughing a bit to suppress the sudden urge to smile. “Always a valid concern.”

“Could happen anytime, mate,” Alfie says solemnly, but his eyes are warm. “Act of God or something, yeah… can be very unpredictable, that.”

Tommy is pretty sure he’s already managed to find the bit of truth in what Alfie is telling him. “So, going in up in flames, then,” he says. “How exactly would that happen?”

“Theoretically?”

“Theoretically.”

“Well, funny you should ask,” Alfie says, leaning forward a bit. He holds up one of his hands, palm facing in Tommy’s direction, like it’s telling him to wait for it. “Let’s say there was a man, right, who knew how to set things on fire fairly effectively, and then let’s assume, yeah, that there was another man-”

“Two men?” Tommy interrupts, can’t really help himself. “This is getting complicated.”

There is a second of stunned silence and then Alfie honest to god _grins_ at him, a bit lopsided, but clearly delighted, and Tommy realizes two things at the same time:

One – he is going to need his own plan for this thing, whatever it’s going to look like in the end, and then he’s going to need contingencies for that plan. He’ll need to think it through first, maybe talk to Polly about it.

Two – Alfie Solomons is attractive. On a very simple, straightforward, _primitive_ fucking level, Tommy thinks he’s attractive; with his disheveled hair and his beard, his broad shoulders and his stupidly appealing hands, his crazy eyes and his long-winded metaphors and the calculating way his selfish fucking brain works. And it shouldn’t be fucking news at this point, Tommy thinks, it shouldn’t, it _shouldn’t,_ because they had sex, Tommy actually _wanted_ to sleep with him, for fuck’s sake, except somehow, right now, it _is._ Completely new information. Jesus fucking Christ.

What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be porn in the end, I swear!  
> Just... there have to be some shenanigans first.
> 
> (Also, writing the last paragraph, all I could think about was that one scene from "Friends" where Pheobe is screaming "THIS IS BRAND NEW INFORMATION". Because this is how my brain works, apparently.)
> 
> (Also, John I'm sorry, I love you.)


	2. Chapter 2

Supposedly, there’s a fall guy.

Tommy forcibly shoves everything else in his head to the side for the moment, makes himself listen carefully. If he doesn’t pay attention now, he’s going to pay for it later in some way or another, and that is just a fact.

Alfie has got someone willing to take the blame for the whole thing, is the main argument in all of this. Which _is_ a pretty good selling point, Tommy has to give him that. It’s easy to have something burn down, after all – hell, Tommy has people he could call right now, if he wanted that to happen – but the actual problem is getting away with it after. This isn’t Small Heath, Birmingham, so depending on the amount of insurance money that’s on the line, people tend to look into that sort of thing more closely; especially if the City Council is involved, however indirectly. Might be a good idea to additionally motivate some of his police contacts beforehand, he thinks, if he does decide to go through with this.

“So, this man,” he says, exhaling smoke. “…who’s supposedly going to take the blame.”

 _“Supposedly…!”_ Alfie mutters to himself, offended.

It’s amazing how non-threatening he can seem at times, wide-eyed and eager, following everything Tommy does with rapt attention. Tommy has never been that fucking _aware_ of him before, the way his hands are always moving, fingers rubbing together. The relaxed way he’s holding himself, occupying space without even trying. The way his shirt isn’t buttoned up completely, cotton undershirt visible underneath, suspenders digging into his shoulders. It’s almost like being made aware of some kind of background noise; once it’s caught your attention, it’s impossible to unhear.

“He’s Jewish?”

Alfie tilts his head sideways, looking at him with pity. “’Course not. That’d be a bit too bloody obvious, yeah?” He rubs a hand over his mouth, his beard, then says almost mockingly, “Don’t you think?”

“I do think it would be, yeah.”

“Well, glad we agree on that.”

“And he is volunteering, because…?” Tommy asks, leaves the question hanging in the air. His cigarette is almost finished; he considers lighting the next one.

Alfie rubs the back of his hand under his chin, suddenly a lot more focused.

“Who’s saying anything about volunteering, mate?”

Tommy resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m assuming he’s getting something _out_ of it, eh?”

There are going to be mitigating circumstances – no casualties for one, if everything goes to plan, in addition to a non-political motive and, if Alfie is to be believed, no prior convictions as well. They could maybe see to it that the guy has a half-decent solicitor. Still, depending on the actual damages caused, whoever is found guilty is guaranteed to end up in prison for a long time.

“He his, absolutely he is, yeah,” Alfie says in an affable tone and with a face that clearly suggest that Tommy mind his own fucking business. Well too bad, Tommy thinks, if he’s going to be involved in this, Alfie can at least share some version of the truth.

“Like what?”

“None of your fuckin’ business.”

“I beg to differ.”

“Oh, do you now?”

“Yes. Going to  need a name, at the very least.”

“Well, yeah, no, of course, yeah.” Alfie stares up at the ceiling, pretending to think long and hard about it. “George Frederick… Ernest Albert of Wales. There you go, that’s a very nice name, innit. You can have that one, mate. All yours.”

Right, Tommy thinks, filing that particular issue away for later, and knocks some ash off his cigarette. Fine. They’ll have to revisit that. So far, it all seems very sound – which makes him automatically suspicious, because the lack of any obvious flaws means that he’s missing something. Which probably explains the sudden urge to do something completely unexpected, to throw Alfie for a loop for a bloody change. Doesn’t mean that the decision makes any _actual_ sense, but oh well. He’s made worse mistakes for dumber reasons.

“Right,” he says, then clears his throat. “This has been very informative. Think I’m gonna go to the warehouse now.”

There is a moment of silence.

“You what?” Alfie says then, bewildered. “Why?”

“To have a look around.”

“Right, yeah, let me rephrase the question: Fucking _why_ exactly?”

Tommy shrugs. “I’m going,” he says, and puts what is left of his cigarette out in the ashtray.

Alfie sinks down low into his chair, looking him up and down with his head tipped back. There is no innuendo in his gaze this time; it’s precise and calculating, trying to gauge his motivation. For some inexplicable fucking reason, it makes Tommy run hotter than anything. He can feel it rushing through him like actual heat, from one second to the next, turned on and furious at the same time. Fuck you, he thinks, completely without reason, _fuck_ you, bloody fucking _fuck you._

He stares back, motionless, hackles raised; he hates feeling irrational and out of control like this, because in his life, in his line of work, he just can’t fucking afford it. And Alfie wouldn’t care, would he, he’d just take it and use it against him. He’d just do… whatever he bloody wanted. And fuck, maybe Tommy kind of _wants_ him too, and isn’t that a terrifying thought.

He has no idea if Alfie can tell what he’s thinking. He’s still staring at Tommy silently, contemplating all the possibilities. If he actually mentions anything, Tommy might have to shoot them both in the head, just to spare himself the humiliation. But after a few seconds, Alfie narrows his eyes at him, sitting back up again, and then he actually gets out of his chair.

“Fine then, bloody hell,” he says. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

They’re going to the warehouse.

John clearly thinks there is some kind of plan, whereas Alfie is still staring at him out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out _if_ there is an actual reason for doing this or not. Ollie just… sits there. Tommy doesn’t have a clue what he thinks about any of this. He’s always been a weird kind of background presence; not exactly threatening, not too comfortable with violence, either. Tommy figures he must have some useful qualities, otherwise Alfie wouldn’t keep him around.

As a matter of fact, there is no plan. This is a completely pointless exercise, fueled by the irrational need to gain some sort of control over the entire situation – not the arson plot so much as… everything else. But who fucking cares, Tommy thinks resolutely, it’s not like having no immediate strategy has ever stopped him before. He can improvise if he has to.

They’re crammed together in one car, because Alfie insisted on his driver; which leaves John, Ollie and Tommy stuck next to each other on the backseat. It’s not entirely comfortable, but it’s also not the worst thing in the world. Tommy is fine with the actual arrangement, because he hates being in the front if he’s not the one who’s driving. It has something to do with having somebody at his back where he can’t see them – if he had to get analytical about it, he’d guess that this probably means that he has some control issues, but he doesn’t have to, so he won’t.

Not that Alfie even _offered_ anybody else the passenger seat, but the point still stands. John looks far from thrilled to be stuck in the middle between him and Ollie, Tommy thinks, but he can fucking deal. It’s a short ride, anyway.  

When they get there, there’s not much activity, though the area is far from deserted. Tommy circles the entire building twice by himself and does his best to look like he’s got some kind of purpose while doing it. Then he stands to the side with his hands in his pockets, a good sixty yards away from the car, and tries to put his thoughts in order. Would be best if the fire started somewhere on the east side of the building, he thinks. It’s the only one without neighboring properties, just a bleak, wide open space with a fence around it that once upon a time might have been field, so there’ll be less chance of anything else being damaged. _If_ he’s going to do this, of course.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Alfie is on his way over, cane resting against one shoulder like somebody else might be carrying a hunting rifle. Back at the car, John couldn’t look more bored if he tried.

Some goods will have to actually be _in_ the warehouse when it goes up, Tommy thinks, to make everything look normal. Doesn’t have to be a lot – after all, there is the easy explanation that they’re in the process of being cleared out because they’re selling the property. Then Alfie is standing next to him, both of them regarding the building silently for a few moments. Tommy carefully pulls out his packet of cigarettes and feels immediately calmer once he’s lit up.

“Right,” Alfie says suddenly, like he just remembered something important that slipped his mind earlier. “On an unrelated note – you staying the night?”

Tommy swallows a mouthful of smoke and starts coughing. He isn’t sure what he expected. He also isn’t sure what his face is doing right now, but he knows that it has to be a far way off from calm and collected. God fucking dammit.

“In London, I mean,” Alfie says, with a smug air that suggests that this is not what he meant at all.

“Maybe,” Tommy says hoarsely, trying his level best to sound indifferent; Lizzie booked two hotel rooms for him and John yesterday already, but it’s not like Alfie needs to know that. “Haven’t decided yet.”

Alfie makes a humming sound, like that is perfectly understandable.

“I’m going to need a name, Alfie,” Tommy says, circling back to their unknown fall guy, thinking now is as good a time as any. Alfie’s gaze comes up to his face, lightning quick; he almost looks impressed, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards like he’s trying not to smile. He’s very clearly thinking that Tommy is trying to connect the two things together – the warehouse business with… whatever else it is they’re fucking doing. Because he’s an insufferable bastard who is severely overestimating himself, which isn’t really news at this point.

“Like that, is it?” he says, voice pitched low, even though there’s now one around to hear it.

It _definitely_ isn’t. Tommy isn’t even sure if that would be the kind of trade he’d want to make. Ever, about anything. Still, he thinks, heart pounding, it’d be interesting to know if Alfie would go for it or not.

He shrugs. “Not agreeing to anything without knowing who it is,” he says, then adds, “Regardless of whether… we stay the night or not.”

It feels very strange to actually _talk_ about it; even if it’s just in a roundabout way that no one listening in would find suspicious at all. Surreal, almost. Like maybe the underlying meaning really _is_ made up and solely exists in Tommy’s head. Next to him, Alfie doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, idly scratching his cheek, seemingly lost in thought.

When Tommy finally finishes his cigarette and returns to the car, Alfie follows him without a word.

 

* * *

 

Once they’re back in Camden Town, the car hasn’t even completely rolled to a stop yet when a middle aged Jewish man in an apron comes up and starts knocking on the car window.

“For fuck’s sake,” Alfie says, irritated, as soon as he sees the man’s face, and swings open the car door with enough force to nearly brain him with it. “Do _not_ fucking tell me this is still going on!”

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Solomons,” the man says, not looking overly intimidated. “But perhaps it would be best if you personally told them-”

“Yeah, mh-hm, could do that, couldn’t I, or maybe I could personally go in there, yeah, and tear their fucking balls off. I’m thinking that might be entirely appropriate to the situation.”

“Whatever you think is best, Mr. Solomons,” the man agrees, impassive.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Alfie mutters, rubbing a hand over his mouth, and turns back around to the car. “Ollie!”

They’ve all gotten out of the car already, and now Ollie hastily scrambles around to the passenger side. “You want me to…?” he asks, clearly hesitant to go into detail with Tommy and John right there.

“No,” Alfie says, in a very sarcastic tone, “No, actually, I want you to stand there, yeah, like a moron, and take in this _beautiful_ view- yes, I fuckin’ _want_ you to. Go on, move, fuck off. There you go.”

Then he points an accusing finger at the other man. “Right. Fuckin’ details.”

They retreat back to the entrance of the distillery, where Alfie leans against the brick wall with folded arms, staring intently at the ground while he listens to what the guy is telling him. Tommy lights a cigarette. They’re more or less done here anyway, at least for now. For some reason, he almost feels… disappointed. Which he _absolutely shouldn’t,_ he tells himself, because all things considered, this is probably one of the better outcomes – especially since he wasn’t even sure what to expect to begin with.

“Right,” John murmurs in his direction. “You know I’m not complaining, but what the fuck was that detour even about?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Tommy says, because it sounds a lot better than the honest answer, which at this point would be: Nothing at all, except to annoy Alfie Solomons. “Too complicated to explain right now.” John has been a lot more patient than Tommy ever expected him to be, in all honesty, but it’s obvious that he’s nearing the end of his rope. It’s fine, Tommy thinks, he doesn’t need him to be in a good mood, he just needs him to be there.

“Oh, here we go again,” John says suddenly, nodding his head at Alfie, who is once again on his way over, and demonstratively marches away, to wait for Tommy at their own car, parked down the street.

“Busy day?” Tommy asks when Alfie gets close. Would be interesting to know what this is all about.

“Something like that, yeah,” Alfie says. He’s not looking at him, eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind Tommy’s right shoulder as he hands him an piece of unevenly folded paper. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

Tommy takes a look. On the paper, written in pencil, is a name and an address.

“All right,” he says slowly, trying not to focus on what this might mean, beyond the fact that Alfie is sharing relevant information concerning their possible joint undertaking of burning down a warehouse, and puts the piece of paper in his pocket. Alfie nods once, like he’s done his due diligence and turns to leave.

“Only remaining question now is how to split the returns,” Tommy says hastily, since it’s very clear that this is as far as Alfie is willing to go on his end and because it’s the only thing he can think of that would reasonably prolong their conversation.

Alfie pauses mid-turn, puts his cane down and pointedly looks around; they’re standing in the middle of the street, admittedly not ideal for this kind of conversation, which is why Tommy said it in the first place. Alfie’s visibly calculating – Tommy is not sure if it’s obvious because he’s gotten better at reading him or if Alfie is actually _letting_ him see it.

“You still gonna be in town around seven?” he asks then, very casually. Behind him, an agitated man has appeared, talking to first guy and waving his hands around frantically.

“Might be,” Tommy says, focusing on the cigarette between his fingers.

“Hmmm,” Alfie says. “Discuss it then?”

Tommy clears his throat. “So what,” he says. “I’m just supposed to show up here again?”

“If you don’t, you don’t,” Alfie says with a shrug, finally making full eye contact. “Up to you, innit.”

Tommy stares back for a few seconds, keeping his expression carefully blank.

“Seven, was it?”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” Tommy says, not committing to anything. They probably should shake hands at this point, he thinks, but for some reason, it feels like the most dangerous idea in the world. Deep down, he already knows he’s going to be there, but still – it’s reassuring to have the possibility of simply not showing up. He could leave with John, he thinks, go back home and not do… any of this. Whatever it is they’re doing. Of course, the fact that he has the option _not_ to do something ill-advised and potentially dangerous, for no other reason than he kind of really wants to, makes it _more_ likely he’s going to do it, not less. He could try to deny that tendency in himself, but what would be the point? If he had to get analytical about it…

But he doesn’t, so he won’t.

 

* * *

 

They drop by Ada’s unannounced, because the element of surprise prevents her from mysteriously being “out on errands” when they come to visit. Usually, she’s always happy to see them in the end, if they manage to catch her off guard enough to actually _see_ them. Tommy sends John in first to soften her reaction. If she sees Tommy, she’s automatically going to assume something is wrong. 

“What the hell are you doing here!” she says, halfway between indignant and delighted; she gets up to hug John and kisses Tommy on the cheek, all the while looking at them suspiciously.

“Esme’s kicked him out,” Tommy deadpans, trying not to grin at John’s instantly outraged expression. “So he’s seeking refuge.”

“Oi! The fuck she did-” John shouts, in the same moment Ada says, “What? John, what the fuck did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, all right,” John says. “Don’t even fucking listen to him,” he’s pointing at Tommy reproachfully, “He’s talking shit as usual.”

They have an early dinner, sitting around in Ada’s kitchen instead of the dining room. She and John swap stories about their children; and then they tell Ada all about how last week, Lizzie walked in on Michael fucking some girl in his office, which is bloody hilarious, even objectively speaking, because Lizzie could not have cared less, whereas Michael was so embarrassed he wouldn’t look her in the eyes for two days afterwards.

When they’ve finished eating, Ada fetches the whiskey and they all have a glass. John wants to go out – it’s one of the main reasons he came to London in the first place. Tommy told him before they even left Birmingham that he wasn’t sure if he was going to be available for that – might have to deal with something else – so John could very well end up on his own. But of course, Ada has some friends in town; all of them communists or at least somewhere in the general vicinity, naturally, but it’s not like John really cares enough about politics to have a strong opinion one way or the other. He’s usually happy to drink with anybody who’s there and sociable enough.

Tommy secretly put the chances of Ada actually saying yes at fifty-fifty, but she agrees readily enough and when Tommy leaves them, with the vague promise to join them later, if he manages to be back in time, they’re heatedly discussing where to go first.

 

* * *

 

He almost makes it to the distillery on time, but three streets away spontaneously decides to stop the car and wait for ten extra minutes, smoking a cigarette in peace and quiet. When he finally gets there, Alfie is already waiting outside in some strange kind of role reversal, leaning against his car with his arms crossed. He demonstratively pulls out his pocket watch and looks down at it, up at Tommy and then back down again.

 _“Around_ seven,” Tommy says, unimpressed. “You’re exact words.”

And never mind the fact he didn’t ever actually agree to anything, he thinks, but that's Alfie for you – he always expects everything to go his way, like he’s convinced that reality itself is going to come around eventually, if he just ignores it resolutely enough.

“Right,” Alfie says, matter-of-fact, and puts his watch away again. “The way I see it, there’s two options here – either we go inside-” at that, he points at the door to the distillery, like Tommy might need the visual reminder, “…and discuss the financial matters like grown-ups. Or we don’t, right, and just go… somewhere else.”

Tommy can feel his guard go up, even though this isn’t unexpected – in fact, it’s almost exactly what he was hoping for. “Where are we going, then?”

“Oh, well, to the gallows, obviously,” Alfie says seriously, because of course he notices Tommy’s suspicious reaction straight away. “’Cause _this_ here, right, this is the best I could do today, as far as an actual ambush is concerned.”

There is an awkward pause at that, both of them remembering the times Alfie actually _has_ done better in the past, as far as an actual ambush is concerned. Tommy isn’t sure if this is an appropriate conversation to have with somebody you are planning to, well… _do_ things with, in the immediate future. But then again, this is Alfie, so who even cares; he bloody deserves that and worse. Also, Tommy could be wrong – but he almost gets the impression that Alfie regrets making that particular remark.

“Very nice of you to bring it up,” he says, anyway, sardonically.

Alfie shrugs one shoulder, definitely a bit uncomfortable. “What’ll it be, then?”

And just like that, the ball is back in Tommy’s court again. He doesn’t understand how Alfie can be the one fucking _offering_ and still turn it around to where Tommy has to make all the vulnerable decisions. It’d be almost impressive, if it wasn’t so obnoxious.

“Try option two, eh?” Tommy says, almost reluctantly. It feels like admitting defeat.

For the second time in one day, they both get into Alfie’s car. It’s the same driver, even. Alfie doesn’t have to tell him where to, just nods his head with a grunt and off they go. The actual drive is as short as it is silent. The car stops in front of a town house, in a street that has to be just on the edge of Camden Town, Tommy is pretty sure. If this is Alfie’s actual house, or at least someplace he stays regularly, it’s probably better Tommy left his car back at the distillery. It’s far less damning if sits there overnight, in any case.

“Tomorrow as usual?” the driver asks Alfie, once him and Tommy are both standing next to the car on the sidewalk.

“Yeah, yeah, unless the world ends or something,” Alfie says absentmindedly, scratching his cheek.

The man doesn't even bat an eye at that. “Have a good night, Mr. Solomons,” he says and drives off.

“A valid concern,” Tommy says, deadpan, once he’s gone. Now that it’s just the two of them, he can feel a certain nervous energy starting to course through him; not exactly uneasy, but something very close.

“Yeah, well, if the world _does_ end tomorrow,” Alfie says. “You’re gonna stand there feeling like an idiot, aren’t you.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

There are a total of four locks and then an actual security gate behind the front door. Alfie goes through everything with practiced ease, doesn't even have to look at the individual keys to make sure he’s got the right one. Tommy tries and fails not to pay attention to his hands. It feels like that thing between them has been simmering the whole day and now it’s finally, very slowly, coming to a boil.

Inside, the house is dark and quiet. The front door falls shut behind them and all of a sudden, Tommy is awash with adrenaline. What the fuck is he even doing here? In the dim light, Alfie seems a lot more imposing, somehow. It’s his bloody coat, Tommy thinks stupidly, it has to be. Always makes him look like he’s towering over everything, for some reason. He follows Alfie’s example and takes his cap off; then he clears his throat, ignoring the way it seems to echo in the charged silence between them. There’s really no use in keeping up the pretense, is there, he reasons with himself. Better to go on the offence and throw the first punch.

“So. Bedroom?”

Alfie looks at him, startled. “Straight to the point this time, bloody hell.”

He sounds almost scandalized, which strangely helps to settle Tommy nerves. The back of his neck has started to itch and he longs for a cigarette. He also wants to say something bitingly sarcastic in response, but can’t _think_ of anything, so he tries to look like he doesn’t care either way and just raises an eyebrow expectantly.

Alfie recovers from his initial reaction lightning quick, because he’s staring at Tommy hotly now, clear want written all over his face, not trying to hide any of it. It’s terrifying and thrilling at the same time.

“Follow me,” he says and marches off.

The bedroom turns out to be on the first floor, with an actual bloody deadbolt on the inside of the door. It’s this detail more than anything that makes Tommy realize that yes, this is probably Alfie’s real bedroom, where he actually sleeps. He does a quick survey of the room, taking stock; two windows, but only the one door. Bed with two nightstands, one on each side. One desk, neatly organized but clearly in use, and three bookcases, filled with books to the point of being absolutely crammed. One large potted plant, which is… unexpected.

Alfie honest to god _locks_ the door with the bolt; the rational part of Tommy’s brain knows that he should be worried by that, but then again, if Alfie is going to try and murder him at this point, this has to be one of the most convoluted attempts on his life that Tommy has ever seen. When Alfie turns around, he’s so clearly checking for Tommy’s reaction that Tommy is on his way across the room before he even knows what he’s doing. He does _not_ want to hear whatever it is that Alfie might have to say, so he kisses him instead.

It is really weird, he thinks, how kissing makes this feel _less_ awkward, but here they fucking are. They settle into it easily, with a strange sense of familiarity, even though they’ve barely done this before. Alfie’s hands are on his neck, then he’s cupping Tommy’s face; when he tips Tommy’s head up, Tommy pushes his tongue into his mouth. He can feel himself getting hard already.

They go on like that for a while, swaying together in the middle of the room; eventually Tommy pushes his hands under Alfie’s coat, the feeling of the gun holster also kind of familiar already. They separate by unspoken agreement and start taking their clothes off. It’s just as nerve-wracking as it was the last time, Tommy thinks, because as soon as there’s a moment of separation, his brain kicks into high gear, trying to scrutinize everything. Except there is no rational fucking explanation for any of it, obviously, so instead he can just feel himself slowly starting to panic.

He drops all his clothes on the floor and has to keep his hands from shaking by willpower alone, which makes him lose track of what Alfie is doing – when he looks up again, he is _right_ _there,_ crowding into Tommy’s space and kissing him again. It should unnerve him more, Tommy thinks, but right then, in that moment, it feels like relief more than anything.

Somehow, they end up naked on the bed together. There is some hesitation on Alfie’s part, possibly because of Tommy’s initial reaction the last time they did this; but right now, Tommy can’t find it in himself to bloody _care._ He pulls Alfie on top of him with both hands, because that’s what they’re here for, after all – there’s no point in wasting any time by holding back or being nice about it.

Alfie goes easily, tangling their legs together. He’s a solid, immovable weight, which for some reason makes Tommy want to try and push him off, just to make sure that he can’t. They’re kissing deeply now, Alfie’s hand cradling the top of Tommy’s head, like he has to keep him in place.

Then all of sudden, Alfie lifts himself up and grabs Tommy’s thigh – to pull his leg to the side and out of the way – and before Tommy can so much as protest, Alfie is back on top of him again, settling down heavily between his legs. And fuck, Tommy thinks incoherently, stomach flooding with arousal, _Christ._

He’s not even reacting to the physical sensation, at least not entirely. Yes, right now, like this, Alfie probably could _make_ him… do things, because fuck if he’s not strong, broad shoulders and coiled muscle, and yes, it’s nothing if not infuriatingly attractive. But really, it’s the arrogant ease he bloody does it with; the way he seems to be absolutely certain that Tommy is going to like it, yeah, so could he just relax and let Alfie get on with it. It sets Tommy’s teeth on edge and makes him achingly hard at the same time, makes him want to bite and hit and scratch.

Alfie sets his teeth against his neck, a sharp, blooming pain right over his pulse point that makes Tommy hiss between his teeth. He buries one hand in Alfie’s hair and pulls him off, not being careful at all; trying to move against Alfie’s weight at the same time. His body doesn’t seem to know what the end goal is supposed to be, exactly, all of his instincts telling him different things – to kick Alfie off, to pull him closer, to fight, to do _something_. He plants his heels against the bed, leg muscles tensing up; and then they’re rocking against each other and he’s too busy panting against Alfie’s mouth to think about anything else.

Alfie works a hand between them. Tommy doesn’t even pay attention at first, until Alfie takes both of them in hand, squeezing their cocks together in a firm grip. Tommy bucks up, moaning desperately; he hasn’t got any real leverage, so he’s not going anywhere, which makes it hotter somehow. It’s over embarrassingly quickly after that – the only saving grace is that Alfie comes before him, which is an irrational thing to feel triumphant about, but nevertheless, Tommy does.

“Fuuuck,” Alfie murmurs finally, and heaves himself off and to the side.

They both lie there silently for a bit, catching their breath. It’s not quite awkward yet, but it might be again very soon. Tommy tries to remember the last time he got off with somebody that fast and comes up empty. He’s deeply satisfied and strangely agitated at the same time, like an itch that still needs scratching. The room feels chilly, especially because they’ve worked up kind of a sweat, so he starts to untangle the blanket. Should probably get dressed instead, but that seems too much work, somehow.

After a few seconds, Alfie decides to help and together they manage to haphazardly spread the thing out over the both of them. He really should go, Tommy thinks. Just get up, say his goodbyes and leave before something catastrophic happens – before the world ends or something.

He has it on good authority that in that case, he would feel like an idiot.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck me, this is long. Why is it so long?  
> Also, there's porn, yay!  
> Not completely happy with this, to be perfectly honest, but it could be worse.
> 
> (In case this isn't obvious, they're both planning a crime because they need a reasonable excuse to spend time with each other. Because they're idiots. Also, Alfie is the _most_ paranoid asshole of all the paranoid assholes, and nothing is going to convince me otherwise.)


	3. Chapter 3

When he opens his eyes, it’s pitch black.

He’s curled up under the blanket on the far side of the bed, facing the windowless side of the room; gut feeling telling him that it’s late at night rather than early in the morning, so he can’t have been out for that long. Must have dozed off at some point, he realizes, which… is not something that usually happens. Instinctively, he knows that he’s not alone, even before he consciously starts to listen for the sound of Alfie’s breathing.

There must have been some kind of shift, some noticeable change, even though he hasn’t moved at all, because suddenly, there is Alfie’s voice, asking “You up?” from somewhere behind him and in such a casual way that Tommy instantly wants to pretend that he isn’t.

“No,” he says, swallowing around the sleep in his throat. “M’not.”

There is a pause.

“Very articulate for somebody who’s asleep, aren’t you.”

“It’s a gift.”

More silence, both of them just breathing evenly, and then the rustling of movement.

Alfie fits himself against the line of his back very slowly, presumably so Tommy can tell him to fuck off if he wants to. Tommy is definitely thinking about it. The darkness is the deciding factor, in the end. He keeps still and lets Alfie press close to him; very warm, a heavy presence. There is something viscerally familiar about his scent already, the impression probably amplified in the dark.

“All right?” Alfie murmurs, breath against the back of his neck making Tommy twitch.

“Wouldn’t know. M’asleep.” It’ a weak attempt at being flippant, even to his own ears.

Alfie is hard again, Tommy can feel his erection burning against the small of his back like something that’s actually, physically hot. He wants to push back against him and scramble away at the same time. 

Alfie hums, another gust of breath against Tommy’s neck, and puts his hand low on Tommy’s stomach; five fingers splaying wide, pulling him back a little. He’s got big hands, Tommy thinks, trying his damnedest not to shiver. There is a low current of fear running through him – because of their current position, because they’re both still naked, because he didn’t fucking leave and fell asleep instead. Because despite the darkness, he’s feeling exposed. Because like this, Alfie could just… try and shove his cock inside of him, if he wanted.

The thought doesn’t seem to stop the arousal at all; if anything, it intensifies it, making him hyperaware of Alfie behind him, his hand on him. Alfie’s thumb is stroking gently back and forth over his stomach, the thin skin over his hip bone, doesn’t do anything else.

Tommy is so hard it almost hurts.

He holds out for a while, a minute maybe, before he grabs Alfie’s wrist and pushes his hand downwards, feeling his own heartbeat beating in his throat. Alfie makes an amused sound and lets him do it, curving his palm over Tommy’s cock. Tommy takes a desperate breath in through his nose, making an effort not to move his hips at all.

After endless seconds, Alfie takes him in hand, wraps his fingers around his cock and slowly pulls back the foreskin. Tommy is still holding onto his wrist, clutching it so hard it must hurt by now, but Alfie seems unperturbed. He drags his thumb over the cockhead and makes a low, surprised noise.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re properly wet, aren’t you.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything. Can’t. If he opens his mouth now he’s going to make noises he won’t be able to take back. He turns his face downwards, panting harshly against the pillow. Alfie is circling his thumb now, spreading the moisture around, the rest of his fingers holding tight, but not moving otherwise. _Fuck,_ Tommy thinks, god, fuck, he can’t _do this._ He can feel himself go rigid, his body desperately wanting to move, his head insisting on not showing any reaction at all. It’s different because they’re not kissing, he thinks, they’re not in this _together;_ whatever happens, whatever he does and doesn’t do, it’s going to be entirely on him, and Alfie is going to _know._ He’s going to notice everything, because it’s what he always does.

“Shhh, easy, yeah,” Alfie says suddenly, lips pressed against his shoulder blade, shushing him like he’s a bloody child. “Easy, mate. S’fine.”

“It’s not _fine,”_ Tommy bites back, barely recognizing his own voice.

“Yeah, yeah, it is,” Alfie says. There’s the kind of certainty in his tone someone might have while explaining that the grass is green or the sky is blue, which makes Tommy simultaneously feel grateful and absolutely furious. “S’all gonna be fine, right, don’t even worry your pretty head about it.”

“I’m not fuckin’ worried,” Tommy says, or tries to say; the second half turns into a moan because Alfie moves his hand, fucking _finally,_ stroking him sure and easy. It feels like bliss. He doesn’t even pretend to be stoic about it, hips coming forward instantly, trying to match the pace. Everything is already slick, sliding easily; because of _him,_ he thinks, _Christ,_ he’s so turned on he’s almost leaking. It’s mortifying. Alfie is moving around behind him, then, and suddenly his cock slips between Tommy’s legs, pressing up behind his balls. They both make a noise at that, which is satisfying in its own way – any kind of reaction from Alfie levels the playing field at this point, Tommy thinks spitefully.

They’ve got some kind of rhythm going now, moving together in a way Tommy imagines actually fucking might feel like. He keeps clenching his thighs around the intrusion of Alfie’s cock, can’t seem to help himself. It’s pure instinct, like swallowing around a sore throat every few seconds, to check if the sensation is still there. Alfie is making small, desperate noises against the back of his neck, beard scratching the over-sensitized skin there.

It goes on for a very long time.

In the end, Tommy’s not even sure who comes first – whoever it is drags the other one over the edge almost instantly. They shudder through it together, cursing and trembling.

“Jesus,” Tommy fucking _whines,_ low and breathless. “Fucking Christ, fuck, _fuck._ Jesus.”

He can feel Alfie bite him high on his shoulder blade, hard enough to sting, licking over it afterwards, which makes Tommy shudder through another wave all over again. There’s wetness all over his cock, his stomach, between his thighs and over his balls; everything’s slick with their come. Alfie’s hand stays on him, cradling his cock carefully, the sensation almost too much in the aftermath of orgasm.

Tommy realizes he’s still gripping Alfie’s wrist and wills himself to let go. On a whim, he fits his palm over the back of Alfie’s hand, pulling it away and intertwining their fingers at the same time. Alfie makes a content little hum, presses a kiss over the spot he bit earlier.

After, they don’t move for what seems like a long while. Tommy strangely feels like he could fall asleep again right then and there. It’s not something he’s familiar with at all.

“So,” Alfie says eventually, almost tentative. “All right?”

“Don’t know,” Tommy says roughly, initial embarrassment suddenly rushing back in full force; thinking, Jesus, he couldn’t have been more desperate for it if he fucking tried. “I’m asleep, aren’t I.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Right,” Alfie says then, in a voice that’s devoid of any and all inflection, and starts to disentangle himself, pulling his hand away and rolling back over to the other side of the bed.

Tommy stays where he is; perplexed at first, then gradually shifting into high alert. He carefully lets himself flop over onto his back, made even more aware of the state he’s currently in by moving under the blanket. Christ, he’s a bloody mess. He stares up at the dark ceiling, resolutely not looking anywhere else. This might very well be the most uncomfortable silence they’ve ever shared, he thinks, and that includes the times Alfie had a gun pointed at his head.

“Right,” Alfie says again suddenly, very matter-of-fact, like he’s summarizing the conditions of a business deal. “Let’s get some things fucking straight here, hm?”

It’s very hard to read him without seeing his face, or at least what he’s doing with his hands. Just from voice alone, it’s almost impossible – angry, offended, upset, who the fuck even knows. Tommy could try to turn his head to get a look at him, but he’s not sure he wants to. He feels frozen in place, like he’s staring at an oncoming train and can’t move away.

“Like what?” he says, trying to sound calm, unaffected.  

“Like your fucking attitude, mate.”

Tommy blinks up into the darkness and doesn’t know what’s happening or how to feel about it. The words make sense to him individually, but don’t really register as a meaningful sentence. Alfie isn’t waiting for an answer, thankfully, because he keeps going.

“’Cause I don’t mind doing all the heavy lifting, yeah? Honestly don’t. But what I _do_ mind, yeah, where I draw the fucking line, is for you to pretend you didn’t want any of it afterwards. You can fuck right off with that, mate, ‘cause no one’s got the fucking time or patience for that. Least of all me.”

After a short pause, he adds, awkwardly, “I think that’s fair enough, innit.”

“I’m not…” Tommy starts, then stops. His head is spinning, trying to unpack everything Alfie has just said. _Heavy lifting,_ he thinks, what the hell does he mean by that? The fact that he’s initiated almost everything? Which, fine, he’s not wrong about that, at least not on a physical level. But it’s not like Tommy hasn’t… he fucking came here, didn’t he? He’s the one that actually had to show up – twice now, even.

He’d let Alfie fuck him if he wanted, he realizes, something terrified and hot spreading inside his stomach. Might even _want_ him to. So how fucking _dare_ he, Tommy thinks with a bitter jolt of anger, how dare he accuse Tommy of not fucking _wanting_ it, when Tommy is almost _sick_ with fear over wanting it. Out loud, he says, hoarsely, “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Could’ve fooled me, mate.”

“What do you want, then?” Tommy says, suddenly furious, almost spits it out between them. “Fucking _gratitude?_ For me to bloody tell you how fucking _great_ you are, eh? That it?”

There is a second of silence.

“…what?” Alfie says then, sounding so honestly bewildered and like this is not what he expected to hear at all that some of Tommy’s anger automatically dissipates. His cheeks feel like they’re on fire now, neck itching uncomfortably.

“So what, then,” he says defiantly, with a desperate urge to hide his face, which doesn’t make any fucking sense, because it’s dark, they’re alone and not even looking at each other. Still, he feels flayed open for all of the world to see. “What d’you want me to say?”

“Fuuuck me,” Alfie says, sounding muffled – because he’s dragging a hand over his face, Tommy realizes. “Don’t want you to fucking say _anything,_ do I _._ This ain’t a bloody confessional, mate. Just, I don’t know… It’s just fucking, innit. Don’t have to act like I shot your bloody dog in the street.” He makes a pensive noise, then adds, sardonically, “Or sorry, your _horse,_ right, that’d be more fitting to the metaphor.”

This time, Tommy can imagine the face that would go with that statement perfectly. For some reason, this makes his heart clench almost painfully. He takes a deep breath.

“I wouldn’t… be here,” he says, curling his hands into fists, fingernails biting into his own palms. Each word feels like he has to violently drag it out of himself on a spiked hook. “If I didn’t… if I didn’t _want_ to, eh?”

“Yeah, well,” Alfie says, after a few long moments of silence, pointedly clearing his throat. “Figured as much already.” He’s probably aiming for casual, but sounds mollified instead. Tommy feels bone tired all of sudden, almost physically exhausted.

“I need to-” he mumbles, sitting up carefully. “I’m- Where’s your bathroom?”

“Second door to the left.”

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed, casts around for something to wear. Manages to find his trousers and puts them on without underwear, then a sleeveless undershirt that might be his, might be not. It’s hard to tell in the dark. When he gets to the door, it won’t open at first; he remembers the deadbolt just as Alfie says from the bed, “Have to unlock it, mate.”

The hallway is dark and quiet, just like the entire house. Somebody has to be around somewhere, Tommy thinks, as he carefully pads to the correct door, there has to be some staff. Too clean and organized for anything else.

The bathroom is as modern as a bathroom can be, but at the same time not overly luxurious. He’s always gotten the impression that Alfie values comfort and functionality over actual luxury – he’s obviously not opposed to expensive things, but doesn’t seem to view status symbols in the same way Tommy does; armor and entry ticket at the same time.

Tommy takes his clothes off, meticulously washes himself at the sink and puts them on again afterwards, avoiding any and all eye contact with the mirror while he does it. When he comes back to the bedroom, Alfie gets up and leaves, presumably with the same goal in mind.

Tommy spends the next minute trying to locate his underwear on the floor and, once he’s been successful, puts that on instead. Next, he checks if his revolver is still there and carefully places it on top of the nightstand that is, for all intense and purposes, next to _his_ side of the fucking bed.

He has a fleeting thought of just locking the bedroom door behind him, to keep Alfie and everything else at arm’s length for a while; but of course, locking the door would accomplish nothing, except maybe confirming once and for all that he’s lost his bloody mind. Which might very well be true, considering the fact that he is _still here,_ sitting on Alfie Solomon’s fucking bed, body pleasantly humming in the aftermath of orgasm. _Leave,_ he thinks, just… get up and bloody leave, but in the end, he doesn’t. Let’s himself fall back instead, and curls up on the far side of the mattress again.

He’s asleep before Alfie even returns.

During the night, he wakes up twice, which really isn’t bad, all things considered. The first time, he’s only awake for a few minutes, half-conscious and unconcerned with how unfamiliar his surroundings are. The second time, he can tell by the light filtering in through the windows that it’s just before dawn. This time around, it takes him almost half an hour to fall asleep again.

Alfie is dead to the world each time – on his stomach, over on the other side of the bed, with his face buried in a pillow and one arm wrapped possessively around it. Tommy realizes that he almost expected him to snore, which is _such_ an outlandish thing to even think about that it freaks him out for a solid minute. In any case, Alfie doesn’t; he has barely even _moved_ throughout the night, as far as Tommy can tell.

He’s already resigned himself to being awake for good when somehow, at some point, he manages to fall asleep again without even trying.

 

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, it’s obviously morning.

He can’t place the crunching noise at first. When he opens his eyes and slowly turns his head, he realizes that it’s Alfie noisily eating an apple. He’s got his glasses on, yesterday’s shirt draped over his shoulders, and is leaning back against the headboard, busy with reading the paper. _Today’s_ paper, Tommy thinks when he notices the date, where the fuck did he get that already?

“…time is it?” he says and clears his throat.

Alfie narrows his eyes at one of the headlines, not looking at him. “Almost seven.”

Right, Tommy thinks. All right. If John’s been out yesterday, he’s not going to be conscious for at least two more hours. Maybe three. They’ve got separate hotel rooms, so maybe he didn’t even notice Tommy was gone. And even if he did, Tommy can just blame everything on business, if he keeps it vague enough. Probably could get away with claiming he got in _very_ late last night, depending on what John did and in what condition he’s in.

Ada would be a lot harder to convince of anything, because she’d want to know details – not to mention the fact that she’s got Polly’s talent for detecting bullshit – but luckily for him, Ada won’t be anywhere near the hotel.

He maneuvers himself into an upright position and leans back against the headboard, mirroring Alfie, which feels weirdly domestic. Alfie is still frowning at the newspaper. His hair is a mess, not even from sleep, but like he’s run his hands through it a couple of times and then just left it like that.

“Tea?” he asks, without looking up.

There is a single cup sitting on the nightstand, right next to his elbow. He must have been to the kitchen at some point, Tommy thinks, unless somebody brought it up to the room. The house still seems quiet, but of course, that doesn’t have to mean anything. He checks the deadbolt on the door. It’s unlocked. His gun is exactly where he left it; he ignores the sudden urge to check if it is still loaded.

“That yours?” he asks, meaning the tea cup.

“Oh I’m sorry, mate,” Alfie says. “Were you expecting me to bring you fucking breakfast in bed? Yes it’s mine, you see anybody else in here?”

Tommy silently reaches out his hand, waits for Alfie to hand him the cup – he picks it up around the rim, so the handle is free for Tommy to take. He draws his legs up under the blanket, to put the cup on top of his knees between sips. The tea isn’t hot anymore, but still warm, strong and with a bit of milk. Feels strangely intimate, too, drinking from the same cup Alfie has, but that doesn’t stop him from slowly emptying the whole thing, anyway. He really wants a cigarette, but doesn’t want to get up and look for the packet -- partly because he doesn’t want to give Alfie the opportunity to stare at him while he does it, partly just because... well. It’s kind of comfortable, like this, and he doesn’t want to give that up just yet.

“I get the paper, too?”

“Fuck off,” Alfie says, chewing his apple. “Absolutely not. Go get your own.”

There is an honest to god bruise around his wrist, Tommy notices. It’s not immediately recognizable as a hand print, but it doesn’t look completely innocent, either. Of course, this is the exact moment Alfie decides to finally look up from his bloody newspaper, catches him staring and has the nerve to fucking smirk at him. Tommy clears his throat and looks away. His face feels very warm.

“Fuck you,” he murmurs, looking at the opposite wall resolutely.

Alfie snorts, sounding amused, and goes back to his paper. 

He really should get going, Tommy thinks; he got everything he came for after all. In addition to that, Alfie instructed his driver to pick him up yesterday evening, so depending on what “usual” means for them, he’ll have to get ready, too. Probably best to not drag this out any more than they already have.

After all, it’s not like they’re going to fuck _again._

Except when he stretches his arms above his head with a sigh, something cracking satisfyingly into place, Alfie very deliberately puts his newspaper and apple core on the nightstand, turns towards him and says, completely straight-faced and with a look down at his unmarked wrist, “Well, this doesn’t match up at all, now does it, hm? Wouldn’t you agree?”, which makes something molten hot and possessive unwind in the pit of Tommy’ stomach and, well.

They absolutely do.

 

* * *

 

(Tommy manages to steal the newspaper on his way out.)

 

* * *

 

He’s still kind of reeling when he gets back to the hotel, feeling like everybody knows the truth, can read it straight off of his face – _Alfie Solomons made you come your fucking brains out three times since yesterday_ – even though he knows it’s not true.

It turns out John isn’t even there. Tommy calls Ada’s house, a tiny bit uneasy even though he really has no reason to be, and is informed that yes, John did indeed fall asleep on the couch at four o’clock in the morning and hasn’t been responsive to anyone or anything ever since. Tommy tells them he will be there in a bit and when he hangs up suddenly realizes he’s starving.

The piece of paper with the name on it that Alfie gave him is still in his pocket, next to his cigarettes. Polly is not going to like this plan at all, he thinks, but as always – if he can’t convince her, partially at least, he probably hasn’t thought it through enough to do it in the first place.

He’ll have breakfast here, he decides. Why not. Commemorate the occasion or something.

It’s not like this is going to become a regular occurrence, after all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand here we have it. Phew.
> 
> (Featuring today's paper and two emotionally stunted men trying not to get their feelings hurt.)


End file.
